


Rock-a-bye Baby

by LadyLaela (orphan_account)



Series: Lullabies [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M, References to Abuse, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-10
Updated: 2013-07-10
Packaged: 2017-12-18 08:18:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/877635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/LadyLaela
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every moan he manages to drag from your tight lips syphons away a little more of your stress, and just having him there next to you at night; bony body pressed up against yours, gives you strength to go on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rock-a-bye Baby

It was always you and him, really. 

You look back and you can't see it any other way - even if you try. It was always you and him, there was never anyone else. You've had people ask you in hushed tones about 'your relationship', and you can only shrug. You never knew it was a relationship; it was always just you and him.

You cemented that the night you woke him up, dumping a makeshift diaper bag next to him. As usual, the fire of your determination was more than enough to quiet him. You were always the man of action, and his quizzical look was just that, only a look. You motioned to him to follow you as you crept to Dirk and Dave's room, every creak in the quiet house making you tenser. 

Dirk was one fucking precocious kid. You would never know if he was sleeping when you silently pushed open the door, but he seemed to know you were there; pulling himself up on the side of the crib and gazing at you with big, curious eyes. The look was a silent question, and you snuck over to his crib with a finger on your lips. His expression was the twin of Bro's, who you glanced over your shoulder at to confirm it. They were both too fucking smart for your good, way fucking smarter than you. You were just the man of action.

With gentle hands, you lifted Dirk out of his crib. He pulled his thin rag of a blanket with him. You set him down on the floor next to you, moving to the open chest of drawers and scooping out the tiny bundle of blankets that was your baby brother. If he woke up and started crying, you were all so fucked. He babbled softly, squirming a little, and your blood ran cold. You turned and pressed him into Bro's unbroken arm, the teen accepting and instantly holding him tight and safe.

Dave's bright, strange eyes cracked open, and you just knew he was going to scream. You felt frozen. The baby's eyes scanned Bro's face, then slid calmly closed. Thank god. Thank fucking god. You could breathe again. You leaned in and pressed your chapped lips to Bro's forehead, letting out a shaky sigh and collecting yourself again. You could feel him shake, but as you pulled away you looked into his eyes and saw nothing but unwavering faith and trust.

You could feel Dirk tugging at the leg of your jeans, and you bent to scoop him up again. He clung to the neck of your shirt. He needed you, they all did. The bag on your back already made your shoulders ache, but you'd told yourself you wouldn't split the burden any more than making Bro carry the scant few jumpers the babies had and their small supply of cloth diapers. He had dark circles under his eyes; he'd barely slept since his injury. There were no pain pills to give him relief, and the baby would make his good arm more than tired enough. Hell, you'd carry both of the kids if you could do so safely.

You slipped out the front door, hair standing up on the back of your neck as the latch clicked into place. It was so loud in the silence that it might as well be an air horn. Your stomach dropped, and you saw Bro jump in the corner of your eye. You wanted to bolt so fucking bad, you wanted to run so far from here and never look back. You forced yourself to stay calm, if you ran it would scare the kids and they'd cry. Your mouth set in a firm line that you refused to let tremble, and you turned on your heel and counted your footsteps as you walked away.

Despite the weight of bills in your pocket; despite saving every cent of your meagre paycheques, what followed was not easy. The building you lived in was falling down and broken; the four of you shared one bedroom, one mattress on the floor. You'd both go hungry to buy formula and baby food, and you'd go hungry to let him eat. You were thinner than you'd been even before. Dave was always, constantly sick. He cried and fussed and spit up and got hot with fever. There was no money for a doctor.

If you had to be a stripper or something, you fucking would.

You had to be a stripper or something. Barely legal you might be, but you had absolutely no shame. You'd come home from working the pole, back pocket stuffed with ones, and Bro would push you back against the tiny chipped countertop. He was so warm and close. His lips meant safety and comfort no matter how bad your day was.

He'd always been aggressive, and it infuriated him that he couldn't help you. The violent way he mashed your mouths together wasn't just a claiming, but a plea. He needed your comfort, your reassurance. Every moan he manages to drag from your tight lips syphons away a little more of your stress, and just having him there next to you at night; bony body pressed up against yours, gives you strength to go on.

It's better for him to stay at home, even after the broken arm heals up. The kids were way too young to leave alone, and you start working the fast food counter by day and the stage by night. Bro hates it, he feels useless and he hates seeing you so dead on your feet.

"The kids are both so fucked." His hands shake as he heats formula over the sputtering hotplate. "Dave barely eats as it is. What if he-" his adams apple bobs visibly in his throat. "It ain't enough to make him grow." 

You catch his wrist gently, giving him a steady look. "He'll be fine. Lots of people raise babies what have no business doing it. He's got no fever or cough or nothin. He'll be okay." You don't know if that's true, but you have to believe it for all of your sakes. 

"Dirk's almost two an he's never spoke a word. Think he might be retarded…" He rubbed his temple and pulled the formula off the heat.

You shake your head. "Fuckin kid is smarter than me. He understands everything. He just. Doesn't wanna talk." Sometimes you worry that it's something emotional, that even though he's so young something he saw made him mute.

"He just sits and stares most a the time. Watches what I'm doin." Bro thins his lips and goes to the tiny bedroom, where you know he's lifting tiny baby Dave out of the old drawer you found in a dumpster. It's missing one of the sides, but it's all you have for a crib. Dirk is sitting on a blanket on the floor, thrift store toy still in his hand, taking you in.

Bro returns with Dave already squalling in his arms. He looks tired and headachy, almost as tired as you feel. You need to get ready to go to the club, so you do, and you go, and Dave is still crying and Dirk is still watching you when you do.

You start working out, because you're sick of getting harassed at the bar. Your thin body gains muscle quickly, even though you feed it with next to nothing. Bro joins you, even though he's not yet grown into his long limbs. The two of you sweat in the tiny apartment in front of the ailing tabletop fan, doing crunches in comfortable silence. Later you sweat together on the faded futon, the kids sleeping in the other room.

The neighbourhood is far from nice, and one night you wake up to Dirk staring straight into your eyes. "… what?" You whisper to him, wondering if he had some kind of nightmare. Dirk very rarely cried.

He holds a finger to his lips, his eyes saying so much. Then he creeps closer, pressing his small, soft cheek to yours. He… speaks. Every word is perfectly clear.

"There is someone in the house."

You're so busy shitting yourself that Dirk just said something that you barely register what he said. 

Then you hear it. It isn't Bro, he's still next to you on the mattress. It's someone out in the main room. You briefly debate waking your brother, but you don't want him to make a noise. You used to, you used to roll over and clamp a hand over his mouth so he wouldn't make a noise to alert your father just beyond the door. You mouth, "stay here" to Dirk, before slowly and smoothly lifting your body off the bed. There's nothing to use as a weapon in the room, so you ball your hands into fists and silently nudge open the door.

You catch him by surprise, slamming him against the wall. It isn't until later you even see that he had a knife; you just smash his forehead against the drywall until it dents. The yelling wakes Bro and Dave, and adrenaline thuds in your brain as you pin the bastard to the cracked lino.

Bro wakes a neighbour to call the police. You're just pissed you have to find the money to replace the lock.

You're low income enough that it's free to send Dirk to kindergarten. You always thought he'd love it, as smart as he is. With only one baby in the house you can both work, staggering your shifts. It usually works out okay, despite piece of shit bosses. Dave is rarely alone, but so obedient to Bro that even when he was, he just played quietly in the bedroom. You do not miss diapers.

You try to quit at the club, but they make you a bouncer instead. You keep working out. So does Bro. He's grown into his body and out of his acne. 

One of you always has to race to pick Dirk up from school, but you usually make it in time. The teachers do not approve of your unconventional broken family. You keep getting fucking sticky questions about whether you're the legal guardian, and they're getting harder to dodge. The teachers also do not approve of Dirk's eerie silence. He doesn't play with the other kids. He doesn't talk to the other kids. You loathe parent teacher meetings.

Dirk tells you he doesn't like it. He can read for himself, he says, and the other kids are stupid. They make him paint with his fingers, and it's gross. You tell him he'll like it more later. You're still tired. You're more tired. You can barely get up in the morning. 

Bro makes you quit the fast food job. He says you've done enough. He fucks you to silence your arguments. He's gotten so damn good.

You think Dave is the shyest kid you've ever seen, but that doesn't mean a whole hell of a lot because you don't know many kids. He still cries too much. He starts school a year after Dirk does, and it's a lost cause. They call you to take him home because he won't stop crying. You try to push it, though it hurts Bro you know you have to cut the cord, but even when Dave calms down he's nasty with the other kids. More parent teacher meetings. Dave throws sand. Dave pushes kids. Dave starts shit. Oh, are you the legal guardian?

You're done. You pull them both.

You may have graduated high school, but you're stupid. Bro's smart, but never graduated. Still, homeschooling grade one can't be that hard. You start writing again, like you did when it was just you and him and you hid together in your dark little room. You buy spiral bound notebooks, and sometimes you stay up all night filling them. Sitting at the shitty, wobbly stool in the kitchen, you scribble away and listen to the sounds of the city at fuck in the morning.

The kids get older, and by the time Dirk is nine you can leave them alone. After all, his mental age may as well be forty, and he is viciously protective of his younger brother. He's years ahead of where he should be in his schooling. He tutors Dave.

You pick up a second job again, and get Bro hired as another bouncer to work opposite your shifts.

The two of you save up for a computer. 

Now you write a lot faster. Bro takes quickly to shit like building web pages. He tells you he has an idea, and you trust him.

He's the only one you let read your scripts. One night, with a true seriousness which is so rare for him, he tells you that you have to sell this. Give it to people. It's actually so good.

You don't have the funds to look like a real professional, but hell if you don't try. You go to offices, you send script packages, you meet people. You can't sell the script.

You do sell the next one.

Against all odds, his little 'idea' starts bringing in money.

Both of you quit the bar. 

You're still so tired, but you're also excited. The money keeps coming in. You move out of the piece of shit apartment, and not a moment too soon with the kids coming up on puberty. You thought they'd fuss that they still had to share with each other, but after making a sandwich out of you and Bro on a mattress on the floor for as long as they could remember, they were elated. Hell, Dave came and curled up against Bro still half the time. All the saving paid off - the kids even had their own twin beds, but more often than not they were found sharing.

People are asking you for scripts, now. You get commissioned. You sell everything you write. You have deadlines, and you hate deadlines, and you can't sleep and you start going grey. 

As always, he is your solace. He drags you to sleep and he won't let you up, he makes you eat. He pins you to the bed, and every moan he forces out of you calms you down. It's always been this way, whether he was huddled with you under the blankets and kissing your bruises or on top of you fucking your stress away.

He's making a lot of money, and you get an offer to direct. You quit the coffee shop, and he quits the diner.

He makes you take it. Just once. Just try it, yeah writing's your thing, but why not? You'll never have to do it again.

Rolling Stone calls you a natural. Your first film is a runaway hit. 

You do it again. There's silver streaks at your temples.

Before you know it, the two of you are filthy rich. Before you know it, you're a director by trade. Sometimes you have to go away, but he's always there when you get back, he always picks up when you call, he always fucks you stupid before you go.

You couldn't have made it this far without him. Not with your sanity intact. Hell, you still really question your sanity sometimes. He's your lover, your rock, your best friend. Your brother.

Sometimes, when you're overtired and overworked and overemotional, you think back to your personal hell. You remember shielding him from the belt. You remember holding him and kissing his split lip, you remember the first time you offered each other physical comfort - awkward, fumbling experiments.

It was always just you and him. Against your father. Against the world.

It really was always just you and him.


End file.
